Protect and Defend (37 page)

“Please,” Chad implored him. “Let me sleep. I can’t tell you anything like this.”

They left just before Chad passed out again. With his last scrap of sanity, he allowed his mind to leave his body.

It was a mercy. Waking, he fixed on the Code of Honor. They would find him if he somehow remained alive. They would keep faith with him, if he kept faith with them. What he needed was a story.

The flashlight wounded his eyes like an explosion. “Now you will tell us,” the voice said.

His captor started his questioning slowly, faceless behind the flashlight. The questions went on for what seemed like days, punctuated by torture, until at last Chad told them his wife’s name, his company commander, the training he had received, and all the places he had served. Everything but what he knew they wanted.

Silence fell. The voice spoke in Arabic, and another pair of hands brought a flat stool for Chad to sit on.

“Paved Spike,” the voice said.

When Chad shook his head, they hung him up again.

Time passed. “Enough?” the voice whispered.

“Yes,” Chad murmured. “Yes.”

They took him down. “Paved Spike,” the voice repeated.

Haltingly, Chad commenced his half-formed story, straining to find scraps of information which were true but harmless, others which were plausible but false. What he knew about Paved Spike, he told them, was fragmentary or anecdotal—he had not been fully trained. He said this looking straight into the face of a man he could not see.

The second man rebound his hands and feet and placed a noose around his neck.

Chad felt him looping it through the ceiling hook. Slowly, the rope strained his neck, lifting him toward the ceiling. Eyes shut, Chad tried to recall a passage from First Corinthians: “
There hath no temptation taken you but such as is common to man; but God is faithful, who will not suffer you to be tempted above that ye are able; but will with the temptation also make a way to escape, that ye may be able to bear it
.”

Death was his escape. Just before the last air left his lungs, Chad choked out, “There’s nothing else.”

They dropped him to the floor.

Beating after beating, torment after torment, Chad clung to his story, awaiting the release of death.

Death did not come.

The torture went on. In the dark expanses between, Chad created his own world, an alternative to suffering.

He reconstructed books, or movies, or lines of poetry. He relived his life in minute detail. Exhausting that, he conjured imagined futures—first in the air force, then as a farmer, a professional football player, a singer, and a politician. His first campaign for President was so successful that he sailed around the world in celebration.

Topless, Allie dived into the blue Pacific waters from the bow of their sleek sailboat, waving at him to follow. The small boy who watched was as blond and tan as the boy Chad had been at summer’s end.

When the door scraped open, the horror of reality banishing his dream, Chad steeled himself to survive.

Time after time, torment on torment, Chad repeated his story like a catechism.

Time vanished.

Now, on occasion, Chad was allowed to wash himself. He tried to exercise. He could not do push-ups; his arms barely seemed a part of him. But he would manage sit-ups or, stooped, walk in circles until his back ached.

Please
, he begged of Allie,
I love you. Please love me when I return. Please
, he implored his country,
find me. Please
, he prayed to God,
don’t let them learn the truth
.

As months passed—surely, Chad thought, it must at least be months—his body wasted, his limbs atrophied, and his once careless faith in God became deep, profound, mysterious. God would bring him back to Allie. An image appeared to him, bright and concrete as a diamond amidst the blindness of his cell: Allie holding their son.

When he returned to them, Chad wondered, would his eyes still see?

*  *  *

But his captivity was endless. The only landmarks were a tasteless meal, a change of clothes, a carafe of water in which to bathe, the removal of the fetid bucket which held his wastes, a beating—more perfunctory now, meant to remind him of his powerlessness. He had no fellow prisoners; he never saw his captors’ faces.

Live
, he willed himself.
Live, and you can love her as you never have. Live for her, and for your son
.

But Allie’s face grew distant. Inexorably, Chad lapsed into despair.

To pass the time, and to mark it, he began to count the number of times his cell door opened and closed.

Chad counted three hundred and twelve.

Hands reached out for him, gently lifting him up. In unaccented English, a man said, “Let’s get you out of here, Captain.”

The next few moments were fragmented. The man dragged Chad from the cell into a tunnel where, strangely, he could stand, the effort straining the muscles of his back. Barely able to walk, Chad let the man prod him up wooden stairs which led to a trapdoor, a shed, then into a piercing light.

He stood on a parched earth baked by the sun, so blinding that Chad cried out. He knelt to the ground, shielding his eyes, and stared into the face of a dead Arab with a bullet through his eye.

His gaze sweeping the ground Chad saw two more bodies.

“They took their time telling us where you were.”

Chad looked up then. The man was American—alert and hard-eyed, with short black hair. “Where are we?” Chad asked.

“Afghanistan.”

“How long have I been here?”

Surveying the wreckage of Chad Palmer, the man’s eyes softened. “Two years,” he answered.

“Do I have a son?”

“A daughter. Her name is Kyle.”

She was almost two.

Looking at Macdonald Gage, it was Kyle that Chad thought of now.

For Chad, to speak of the value of life was not a political
tactic, or a religious inheritance, but something far deeper and more personal. And never more than when that life was defenseless.

As for himself, there was little Chad worried about besides his family, his sense of honor, his need to make his own life mean something. Material things barely interested him; a beautiful day, which others might take for granted, reminded him that each moment of life was precious, tomorrow promised to no one. His resolve was to be informed, but not defined, by his suffering, and to live in the future rather than the past.

Others saw him as a hero. Chad saw himself as a careless drunk who never should have been captured and, having been, had cost his family dearly. But, having been, he had done all he could. That knowledge left him with a measure of peace which few others would ever know.

He did not like to discuss these things and, except with Allie, rarely did. Once Macdonald Gage—out of puzzlement, and also to disarm a rival—had said to Chad, “I never could have done that.”

Chad gazed at him, his blue eyes distant. “Maybe you could,” he answered. “And maybe you couldn’t. But don’t bother wasting your time on it. Because you’ll never know.”

Now, facing Gage in the caucus room, he felt Kate Jarman watching them.

Once more, Chad worried about what Gage might know, and not just about Caroline Masters. But he also felt, in spite of this, a degree of fatalism and, for Gage, a contempt he could not banish.

“So,” Gage said heartily, “can we count on you here, Chad?”

“To be fair? Always. But kicking back the Masters hearings is not a good idea.”

Gage’s eyes went cold. “According to whom?”

“Me,” Chad responded. “As chairman of the committee.”

“M
Y OPINION
,” Dr. David Gersten said solemnly, “is that parental consent laws can prevent serious emotional damage. And never more so, Professor Tierney, than in the case of Mary Ann.”

Listening, Sarah felt depressed. She had survived Bruno Lasch only to crash over the lunch hour, the victim of an adrenaline surge which, once spent, left her flat and unfocused. And Gersten’s first few minutes of testimony suggested that he would be effective: a psychologist who had studied the response of adolescent girls to abortion, Gersten was neither affiliated with any pro-life groups nor morally opposed to abortion. And, unlike Lasch, he
had
met Mary Ann Tierney—for five hours of interviews, by order of the court.

Martin Tierney seemed buoyed by Gersten’s presence; his voice was firm, his posture straight. “Could you explain the basis for your opinion, Dr. Gersten?”

“Sure,” Gersten answered crisply. “I’ll start with you, Professor. We’ve spent several hours together. You and your wife are mature adults in your midforties, with well-developed moral views and the wealth of perspective and experience which can only be acquired—regrettably—by growing older.” He smiled briefly, patting his ample stomach. “It’s one of the compensations of middle age, which punishes us in so many other ways.”

At once, Gersten’s face grew serious again. “Fifteen-year-olds,” he continued, “lack practical experience, and the wisdom it brings. That’s why the suicide rates for teenage girls are so abysmally high. Every new experience is a matter of first impression—often they don’t know how to handle it, and
give way to despair. Or they make a decision, unable to fully gauge its practical and moral consequences, and can’t live with the results.” Now Gersten frowned; round and bearded, with appealing liquid eyes, his mobile face humanized his testimony. “That adolescents kill themselves—where adults don’t—shows how dangerous it is for parents to abdicate their responsibilities.”

From the front row, Margaret Tierney glanced hopefully at Mary Ann; it was sad, Sarah reflected, that these caring people hoped that a stranger could explain them. “How do you relate that,” Tierney asked, “to Mary Ann’s desire to abort her child?”

Gersten folded his hands. “The decision facing Mary Ann is complex, medically and morally.

“Medically, there are some weighty considerations to balance. Although it seems that Mary Ann has reacted more drastically to one aspect—the risks of a classical cesarean section, including infertility—than she might as an adult.”

Sharply, Sarah looked up from her legal pad; Gersten’s air of certainty had begun to strike her as insensitive. “Morally,” he continued, “an abortion is far different from a tonsillectomy— for which, ironically, she
would
need your consent by law, Mary Ann herself knows the moral difference.”

Gersten glanced at Mary Ann with seeming concern. “The decision to abort, once carried out, is irretrievable. I worry about terrible guilt and severe depression.”

Shoulders slumped, Mary Ann stared at the table; Sarah, tired as she was, was the only one, at least within the courtroom, who could speak for this girl. It was time to buck up.

“Is your concern for Mary Ann,” Tierney was asking, “supported by your experience with adolescent girls?”

Gersten nodded. “Two things emerge.

“First, that the ability to make moral decisions—and to appreciate their consequences—does not develop fully until age eighteen or older.

“Second, that excluding parents undermines that relationship and, as a result, retards the growth of personal competence which parental involvement brings. Which, in turn, can damage the capacity to form healthy relationships of
any
kind.”

Frowning, Sarah scribbled her first note: “opinions too
sweeping,” followed by “incest—the game the whole family can play.” As if anticipating her, Tierney asked, “Have you assessed the effect on
Mary Ann
of failing to involve us?”

“I have. But let’s also consider the consequences of conforming to your wishes.

“Her child’s disabilities—if they exist—mean that the practical consequences of having him will be quite short-lived. On the other hand, should Mary Ann be blessed with a normal child, as enlightened grandparents you’ll help them both in every way you can. In either case, your love for Mary Ann—as well as her love for you—will help the process of healing.”

Sarah was far from certain; listening, Mary Ann frowned in resentment. But Gersten went smoothly on. “On the other hand, her act of defiance could create a breach which, in her immaturity, she may find difficult to close.

“And yet—and this is crucial—the nature of
this
abortion means that she will need you all the more. According to one study, over half the women receiving late-term abortions report severe emotional trauma. That’s particularly true when the aborted chid was, at least initially, a
wanted
child.”

Tierney hesitated, as though weighing his next question. With obvious reluctance, he asked Gersten, “How did your interviews with Mary Ann affect your views?”

“It confirmed them.” Gersten gave Mary Ann a small, embarrassed smile. “I liked her a lot—she’s very bright, and shows promise of developing into a fine adult. But she’s not one now.” Facing Tierney, he continued in a firmer voice. “What Mary Ann is
now
, Professor, is stubborn, sometimes immature, and not fully able to consider the consequences of her actions. Such as that unprotected sex can lead to pregnancy.”

This condescending answer, Sarah saw, made Mary Ann redden. “At fifteen,” Gersten went on, “girls are trying to differentiate themselves. They seek autonomy by defying their parents and—quite often—casting them as the enemy. Unfortunately, Mary Ann’s defiance involves something far more serious than curfews: sex, and the prospect of this abortion.”

Tierney continued to look chary, as though sensing that each question placed more distance between himself and his daughter. “What role,” Tierney inquired, “do you believe Sarah Dash plays in our daughter’s defiance?”

Putting down her pen, Sarah stared at Tierney in surprise. “Ms. Dash,” Gersten answered, “is indispensable.”

At this, Sarah started to object. The hearing had leapt all boundaries—it had become personal, too slanted, and potentially too ugly. But these same reasons stopped her: as the subject, Sarah could not complain without seeming whiny and defensive.